


Protégé

by LadyGreyWrites



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dorkiness, F/M, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 16:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7692127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGreyWrites/pseuds/LadyGreyWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya Stark, a budding concert pipe organist just beginning her career, has been away in Hungary studying with the reclusive Jaqen H'ghar but is ready to make her concert debut in France at a competition judged by the famous Notre Dame organist, Roose Bolton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protégé

**Author's Note:**

> This is drunken fanfiction in all its glory. I'd like to dedicate this one-shot to my empty bottle of prosecco and BlueEyesBlueSkies.

Arya Stark waited in the dark corridor backstage, pacing back and forth. She was equal parts excited and terrified to be competing in her first pipe organ competition since completing her studies. After spending seven years in Hungary studying with the recluse teacher, Jaqen H’ghar, she was back in Western Europe where it all started. The competition, this year in Paris, was hosted by the Royal College of Music but was open to all emerging concert organists, not just former students of the Royal College. Although Arya was at one point a student at the College, she left after her first year to study with Jaqen.

She had spent years in the dark sanctuary of Saint Imre Church in Köszeg, Hungary, practicing under Jaqen’s careful watch. He let her occasionally play for services at the church but never allowed her to perform concerts, or recitals or competitions, saying only _A girl is not ready._

Arya peered through a gap between the panels of the stage shell, trying to see how many people were in the audience. She saw a table had been set up in front of the first row of seats for the organist of Notre Dame, Roose Bolton, who was judging the competition. A fresh wash of nerves flowed through Arya as she took in Monsieur Bolton’s grim face. He was notorious for being a harsh teacher, his compliments rare and his smiles almost non-existent.  

Arya tried to see if she could spot Syrio. Syrio Forel had been her first teacher and she knew he was in the audience somewhere with her sister, Sansa. Jaqen, of course, refused to leave Hungary but he had texted her well wishes that morning.

Arya jumped. One of the competition organizers had touched her arm to get her attention. “Arya, it is almost your turn,” the white-haired woman said. “You can make your way up to the organ loft.” Arya climbed the winding stairs to the organ loft far above the concert hall. An usher stopped her at the top of the stairs and motioned for her to wait until the current competitor had exited.

It was Tommen Baratheon. Arya remembered hearing him play when they both studied at the Royal College. He was playing a Mendelssohn sonata. _Boring._ Tommen always played perfectly. Not that he even had to with his family’s connections. His grandfather, Tywin Lannister, was the Dean of Admissions at the College and his mother, Cersei, was the President. Tommen played the last chords of the sonata and the audience applauded. The usher opened the door to let Tommen exit and motioned for Arya to enter.

Tommen smiled politely when he passed Arya. “Good to have you back, Arya. I wish you luck in your performance.” Arya didn’t have anything against Tommen. He was nice enough. Just boring.

Arya entered the loft and as she came into view of the audience, they applauded. She went to the railing and took her bow. Her heart fluttered a little bit when she realized just how high the loft was. Much higher than the church in Köszeg. Once the applause stopped, Arya took her place on the organ bench.

Arya’s first piece was a little-known piece by Maurice Duruflé titled Meditation. She stared at the organ console, with its unfamiliar buttons and stop pulls, and longed for her organ in Köszeg. She had been given a few hours in the morning to run through her repertoire and select registrations – different combinations of sounds – for each piece. Each stop pull on the console activated a different set of pipes on the organ with its own unique tone colours and characteristics. Knowing how to select registrations was what set an amateur apart from a professional.

Arya took her time pulling the various stops that she had chosen for the piece, making sure everything was just so before she played the first notes. In terms of notes, the Meditation was a simple piece, but it was full of complex and colourful harmonies and dissonances that took much musicality to make into something beautiful. Arya played the melancholy tune in her right hand using the Cremona stop with its mournful tone, and the left hand played the harmonies with Flute stops, creating a soft and delicate blend of sound. She reached the final chords, holding the notes in her hands while her feet played the pedal line that moved through dissonance and harmony, more dissonance, and finally ending with harmony. The rumble of the low C with the 32 foot stop was so low that she could feel the vibrations deep in her chest. She knew the audience would be able to feel it in their feet through the floorboards of the hall.

Arya acknowledged the audience applause with a nod of her head. Her second piece was a Prelude and Fugue by an obscure Bohemian composer, a favourite of Jaqen’s, named Josef Seger. He was a composer from the Baroque period which Arya knew she excelled at. She didn’t have to even think to play it – it was purely fun, the style so natural to her that she played freely with no nerves. Once again, the audience was appreciative and Arya politely acknowledged the applause without leaving the bench.

Finally, her last piece. _The Bach._ Jaqen hadn’t wanted her to perfom it. _A girl has more courage than sense._ The Prelude and Fugue in D major opened with a quick scale passage in the pedals, answered with arpeggiated chords in the hands, and then the pedal scale passage repeated. Arya never, ever nailed the opening scale passage, but when it was repeated a second time, she always played it perfectly. _A girl must play the last first and the first last,_ Jaqen had said, which made no sense, since the two passages were exactly the same.

Arya pulled all the stops that she had chosen earlier that day. They were not the traditional combinations of sounds that were taught in the conservatories for Bach's compositions but she had tried all the standard sounds and it just didn’t excite her enough.

Arya stared at the music in front of her. She could hear the audience getting impatient – the sounds of programs rustling, and whispering filled the hall. She was taking too long.

 _What the hell, why not take Jaqen’s advice?_ She looked at the notes for the second pedal scale passage and played it first, followed by the answering passage in the hands. _Flawless._ And then played the first scale passage and flubbed it. _Fuck._ Arya kept going, not missing a beat. The rest of the opening section was clean, and exciting, just how she liked it.

The second section of the Prelude was marked _alla breve_ , a quicker tempo. Arya was feeling reckless and took it faster than she’d ever tried before. It was absolutely exhilarating. _Oh gods, this is so much FUN._ She raced along, adding stops to create an exciting build of sounds until she reached the Adagio section with its dramatic chords and double pedal footwork. She added some extra flourishes and trills to the final cadence chords, just because she felt like it.

And then onto the fugue. The fugue didn’t have the same gravity as the prelude. It was simply playful. Arya’s fingers skipped across the keys, like a waterdancer, each entry of the theme adding to the complicated layers of texture, building in intensity right up until the huge pedal solo cadenza at the end. Her feet were quick and light on the pedals, never missing a note, and when the hands joined in for the final chords, the massive sounds were absolutely glorious. She held the final chord an indulgently long time because the sounds were raising goosebumps on her arms. Releasing the chords in a flourish, she soaked up the applause for a second before slipping off the bench and stepping to the rail to bow. The applause continued, so she gave a second bow with her hand on her heart to show her gratitude. Arya gave a little wave to the audience and practically skipped out of the loft.

The usher held the door open for Arya as she passed through the door. The next competitor was unfamiliar to Arya – a young man who was looking quite green. “Just my luck,” he whispered to Arya, “having to play after you and Tommen!”

Arya gave him an encouraging smile. “You’ll do fine,” she assured him.

When Arya reached the bottom of the stairs, she was escorted to a row of seats at the back of the hall. Tommen was already there, along with the three competitors who had yet to perform. She recognized two of the three. Trystane Martell had studied at the Royal College, but she didn’t remember him being that great. The other young man was Gendry, who Arya remembered from her days at Harrenhal Conservatoire as a girl. She shuddered, remembering the dark, rundown hallways of Harrenhal. The professors had been harsh and exacting, sometimes beating students who hadn't practiced enough.

Arya tried to listen to the other competitors but she found listening to other people play dreadfully boring. She liked playing, not listening. Maybe Jaqen had been right when he said that competitions were stupid. Well, actually, he had said _A girl does not need to compete to prove herself,_ but what he _meant_ was that competitions were stupid.

Arya yawned. It was going to be a long night. They still had the masterclass to sit through. And the winners weren’t even being announced until the next evening. Arya dozed a little during the rest of the performances.

After all the competitors had finished performing, Monsieur Bolton stood from his chair at the front of the hall and turned to address the audience.

“Thank you to all of our competitors this evening. I have chosen a first and second place winner and the names are now safe in the hands of the Royal College president, Cersei Lannister. The prize for the second place winner will be a $1,000 cash prize. The first place winner will receive $5,000 cash as well as a guaranteed spot in my private studio here in Paris this fall. If you want to find out who our winners are, you’ll have to join me for my concert at Notre Dame tomorrow evening.

“Now, all are welcome to stay for the masterclass. Would the competitors please join me in the loft?”

Monsieur Bolton walked down the aisle to the back of the hall and Arya and the other competitors followed him outside the hall, around backstage, and all the way up the winding stairs to the loft. The loft was small, so the competitors had to crowd around the organ console. M. Bolton attached a wireless lapel microphone so the audience could hear his comments to each competitor.

“Tommen Baratheon,” M. Bolton said, “Let’s get you up here first. You know I used to compete against your grandfather Tywin? Of course, you already know that.”

Arya studied Monsieur Bolton. He wasn’t terribly tall, easily under six feet, and was leanly built. Despite his slight stature, he still seemed to loom over everyone in the loft with his cold, expressionless face. He moved with an easy grace, comfortable in his skin and sure of the power he held over the young musicians.

Arya listened as he went on about how accurate Tommen’s playing was.

“… not a single missed note”

“… perfect choice of stop combinations”

 “… appropriate tempo choices and the articulation was historically accurate”

 _Blah blah blah_ was what Arya heard.

M. Bolton went on. “A technically _perfect_ performance. But incredibly dull at times. Here. Let’s look at measures 14 to 20. I nearly fell asleep here. Let’s see what we can do to put some fire it in.” He had Tommen play through the passage.

Arya rolled her eyes. Tommen couldn’t put fire into his music even if someone held a lit match to his boxers before he played. Arya missed Jaqen all of a sudden. _It is worthless if a girl does not play with passion._

The girl had tried to show Jaqen some passion away from the organ loft before she left, but Jaqen had said something along the lines of _A man cannot take advantage of a girl._ She tried to tell him she wasn’t a girl anymore but a woman of 19 years. He wouldn’t hear it.

Arya was jolted out of her memories as Monsieur Bolton called her name.

“Arya Stark. Please come to the bench.”

Arya squeezed past the other competitors and traded spots with Tommen. M. Bolton hovered at her side, studying his notes.

“Arya. You started with an obscure piece by Duruflé. With all the wonderful compositions that Duruflé has written, I cannot imagine for the life of me why you would choose this one. When a composition is obscure, it’s usually for good reason. In any case. It was played well enough I suppose, but not a repertoire choice I would have made.”

Arya cringed. Monsieur Bolton was every bit as brutal as she had been told. Would he actually give her some useful critique on her playing or would this all be a waste of time?

M. Bolton flipped to the next page of his notes. “The Seger. I had similar comments for the Seger. I’m not sure why you would choose this particular composer. But well-played nonetheless. You have an acceptable understanding of the style and characteristics of music from this era.”

Arya slumped at the bench and wondered if she’d even get to play anything.

M. Bolton flipped another page. “Ah. The Bach. Arya. You were born to play Bach, but you already know this, yes?”

Arya preened a little at his compliment.

“However,” he went on, “you made some unconventional choices in registration. And ‘unconventional’ is me being kind. Some of the combinations of stops that you used were completely inappropriate for this music. Let’s start with the fugue and move backward. Here, at the pedal entry, you used a 16 foot bassoon stop. It was almost comical in its absurdity.”

_Duh, that was the point._

“Arya. You don’t need to use such gimmicks. The music speaks for itself. Well, that’s not entirely true. _You_ know how to make the music speak without using cheap parlour tricks. Don’t lower yourself to that level.”

Arya kept her face blank.

“The prelude,” he continued. “Well, I don’t know if in all my years of teaching and listening to organists that I’ve ever heard anyone play the first scale passage perfectly and then slip on the second one. Interesting. The alla breve was faster than you had any business playing. The adagio. Not bad. Nice pedal work. However, the added ornamentation on the closing chords was completely wrong for this era of music.”

Arya felt a tiny of prickle of tears but pushed them back, channeling them into a quiet rage instead.

“But all in all, Arya, I have to admit, this was an absolutely thrilling performance. I only wish I didn’t know how Bach was  _supposed_ to be played, because then I would have been able to enjoy all your errors in interpretation. Thank you.”

 _He didn’t ask her to play a single note._ Arya slid off the bench and let the next competitor by. She was confused. That was the most backhanded compliment she had ever received. She found some space behind the console and tried to look like she was listening to M. Bolton’s comments on the next competitor’s performance.

She didn’t really care to listen to what he was saying, but M. Bolton had the most wonderfully erotic voice. Deep and silky; cleverly nuanced when he made his little backhanded remarks, and quiet and resonant when he actually said something meaningful. Arya focused on his words for a second. He was talking about a piece by Olivier Messiaen, a terrible modern French composer that Arya couldn’t stand. But his comments about Messiaen almost sounded _dirty_ in his sexy voice. Arya imagined him saying more _interesting_ things to her, whispering silkily in her ear.

Arya spent the rest of the masterclass fantasizing about M. Bolton. Probably not a good thing to do, but she couldn’t help it. His voice was just so damned sexy.

The next thing she knew, the masterclass was over and the audience was applauding again. She followed M. Bolton and the other competitors down the stairs and out to the concert hall foyer. Several audience members stopped to tell Arya how much they enjoyed her performance. She thanked them all politely but watched M. Bolton out of the corner of her eye.

He was about to leave, so Arya pushed through the crowd to reach him before he made it through the glass entrance doors of the hall.

“Monsieur Bolton!” she called, reaching out to touch his arm. (She had learned that from Jaqen. People _listened_ when you touched them. Especially when they were of the opposite sex.) “I wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed the masterclass. I appreciated all your comments.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth as she said them.

He turned to see who would have the audacity to actually touch him. “Arya.” He paused. “You certainly did _not_ appreciate my comments. But I have to run – I’m trying to escape the contest organizers. They have been attached to me like leeches all bloody weekend and I just want to get a bite to eat without them sucking the life out of me.” He turned back to the door and pushed it open, and then hesitated a moment before turning around. “Come with me. We’ll talk more.”

Arya looked behind her to see if Syrio and her sister, Sansa, were in sight, but she couldn’t see them.

“Ok!” she said, and followed M. Bolton out the door and down the street. It was dark out, probably after 10 p.m.

She pulled out her phone as they were walking and sent a quick text to her sister.

_I’m sorry, I’m ditching you and Syrio to HANG OUT WITH ROOSE BOLTON!!!_

Arya slipped her phone back in her pocket and hurried to catch up with M. Bolton. There was a small bistro across the street. M. Bolton walked imperiously across the street, as if traffic should just stop for him. And it did. Arya followed behind. M. Bolton held the door of the bistro open for Arya and she slipped past him into the restaurant. The maitre’d seemed to recognize M. Bolton and led them to a secluded table in the corner. The bistro was dark, lit mostly with candles, and all of the other diners seemed to be couples, which made Arya a little bit uncomfortable.

The maitre’d pulled out Arya’s chair for her and she sat. The maitre’d handed M. Bolton a menu. Arya waited for her own menu but it never came. “May I please have a menu too?” she asked. The maitre’d looked at M. Bolton uncomfortably. M. Bolton just looked at Arya dismissively. He spoke in French to the maitre’d, who nodded and walked away. Arya wanted to ask M. Bolton to say something else in French but she held her tongue.

M. Bolton turned to Arya. “Why have I not heard of you? I was familiar even with the competitors who hadn’t studied at any of the famous conservatories, but you I have not heard of. Where did you come from, Arya?’

“I studied at Harrenhal as a girl, and then spent one year at the Royal College in London,” Arya said, not sure how much detail she wanted to go into. “After that, I moved to Hungary to study with Jaqen H’ghar.”

M. Bolton’s lips twitched. “Jaqen H’ghar. That explains it. _Did a girl find her studies useful_?”

Arya couldn’t help but grin. His imitation of Jaqen was terrible but humorous. “Yes, Monsieur Bolton,” she answered politely.

M. Bolton frowned. “You may address me as Roose. Now Arya. I know you were just itching to challenge every word I said at the masterclass. You should know that I tolerate very little disrespect from my students. You remind me a bit of my last protégé, Ramsay. He challenged every word I said. Absolutely reckless, he was. He will never see his potential unless he learns to control himself.” He paused, and reached out his hand to rest on Arya’s arm. He lowered his voice. “But you, I think you could learn.”

Little shivers ran down Arya’s spine at the sound of his voice. She would do anything if he would just keep speaking like that. Just then a waiter brought two steaming bowls of food.

It smelled delicious, and Arya was starving because she never ate before a performance.

“It is a _cassoulet,_ ” Roose explained. “A French stew made from pork, goose, partridge, white beans and vegetables. I think you will enjoy it.”

Arya picked up her spoon and dug in. Roose was right, she enjoyed it very much.

Roose studied Arya, indecision creasing his face. “So, tell me, Arya. Were your atrocious repertoire choices, excepting the Bach, of course, due to Jaqen’s decisions or your own?”

Arya swallowed. “Jaqen’s, I suppose. Although, he and I are on the same page when it comes to avoiding all the frequently played pieces.”

“And why would you avoid the frequently played pieces?” Roose asked, face unreadable.

Arya shrugged. “Everybody plays them, so why should I?”

Roose raised an eyebrow. “So you are too good to play the pieces that everyone else plays?”

Arya backpedaled. “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps everyone plays those pieces because they are excellent compositions?”

Arya frowned. “No.”

Roose stood and pulled Arya up out of her chair and marched her to the door. “I wasn’t done eating!” she protested.

“You can eat later. Food is for the non-artistic, Arya,” Roose answered tersely. He hailed a cab, and pushed Arya into the cab and then climbed in beside her.

“Notre dame, s’il vous plait,” Roose told the driver.

The driver dropped them off in front of the great cathedral. It looked especially eerie at night with its gothic architecture and grotesque gargoyle and chimera sculptures. Roose took her to a side door and used his keys to unlock it.

Arya gaped. “You have keys for the Notre Dame?”

Roose smiled briefly. “You do know that I am the _organiste titulaire de Notre-Dame_ , Arya?”

“Right.” She mumbled, following him through the door.

He led her down dark hallways, through doorways and archways and finally up winding stone stairs that never seemed to end. He opened the door at the top of the stairs and let her pass through. He reached over and flicked a switch that lit the organ loft. Arya walked over to the rail to look down into the nave of the cathedral. It seemed like a long way down. The nave was still dark and it made the softly lit loft seem like a refuge from the darkness below.

“Do you have your Bach score with you?” Roose asked. Arya nodded and pulled her score out of her bag as well as her organ shoes. Switching shoes, she sat at the console of the great Notre Dame organ and placed her music on the console desk. Roose flipped through the pages. “I want to hear this section where you used that ridiculous bassoon registration again.” He quickly pulled a few stops from the dozens of knobs on the console and nodded at Arya to begin. She played a few measures, and then when the pedal theme came in, it was a strong, bold sound with the stops that Roose had chosen, but it just wasn’t exciting. He frowned and changed the combination of stops. “Again,” he said.

Arya played through the passage again but it still wasn’t right. He started to push and pull new stops but Arya reached out her hand and laid it on top of his. “Try this,” she said, pulling a different combination of stops, including her beloved 16 foot bassoon.

She played the passage again, and when the pedal theme came in, she couldn’t help but smile at the buzzy, nasally sound of the bassoon stop. She finished the section, and looked at Roose. He was watching her; his face still expressionless.

“Well, it’s not what I would have chosen, but it seems to make you smile,” he conceded.

“Why play it if it doesn’t make me happy?” Arya asked.

Roose grunted in agreement and reached into his briefcase to pull out a book. Arya read the title: The Complete Collection of Widor Organ Symphonies. She groaned. Roose ignored her and placed the book on the music desk of the console. The book easily fell open to a page that had obviously been played many times; the spine worn with use.

Arya didn’t even have to read the title of the piece to know what it was. Widor’s famous Toccata, the fifth movement of his fifth symphony. “Really?” she asked.

“You can’t tell me you’ve never played the Widor Toccata, Arya.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not hard. I’ve heard it played a million times. Badly.”

Roose sat on the bench beside her and started pulling stops. “Yes, but you will not play it badly. Let’s try this. Right hand here, left hand here.” He positioned her hands on the appropriate keyboards, which was helpful, because the console at Notre-Dame had 5 keyboards and she would have had no idea which ones to use.

Arya started playing the first few notes.

“No,” Roose said. “Faster.”

She started again at a brisker tempo and Roose nodded his approval. She had to admit, the rapid, rippling arpeggios in the right hand sounded pretty amazing in the huge cathedral. The highly resonant space made the sound from each note carry even after she released the key, so she adjusted her touch so she didn’t hold the keys down quite as long, resulting in a clearer sound. On the second page, the pedals came in with the theme, and the reed stops Roose had pulled were so loud that she almost jumped off the bench when the first note sounded. She kept playing, coming to the end of the first section, and Roose leaned down to speak in her ear so she could hear him over the pedal reeds. “Switch to the récit keyboard in the soft section,” he said, his warm breath caressing her ear.

Roose reached across her, pushing some stops in and pulling others, so that when she switched to the récit keyboard above the ones she was previously playing on, the notes became suddenly softer. She kept playing through the rapidly modulating music, changing keys and gaining in intensity as Roose's arms continued moving, adding different stops so that the sound kept building as she played, occasionally brushing her hands but never so that she missed a note. Finally the pedals came back in with little punctuating fanfares as the music built, and built.

Arya couldn’t keep the smile off her face. The Notre Dame organ was an absolute beast, and the power she wielded under her fingers and feet was incredibly exciting. As she neared the climax of the piece, Roose pulled more and more stops so the excitement continued to build. Finally, the triumphant theme of the music came through in the pedals, played in octaves with both feet. Roose made a guttural noise in the back of his throat as she hit the first pedal notes. Arya thought the noise he made sounded almost sexual. The sound coming from the pipes was enormous. She couldn’t even hear the rapid arpeggio figures in her hands anymore with the massive, rumbling sound of the theme in the pedal reeds.

Arya’s fingers flew over all the notes, until she reached the last high ‘F’, and held it with her right pinky finger, the only note playing while the sound of the rest of the notes gradually died out. Finally, the last four chords. Roose pulled even more stops. Arya played the first three chords of the final cadence, heart in her throat, and was about to play the last when Roose put his hand on hers. “Wait,” he whispered, letting the excitement build. “Now!” he cried, releasing her hand. She played the final triumphant major chord, adding the low pedal F followed by its octave above and held it, enjoying the feelings of the sound vibrations coursing through her body like a surge of electrical power. Finally, she released all the keys, and the sound continued to reverberate through the cathedral for a few seconds before dying away.

Stunned, she turned to look at Roose. His pale grey eyes were wild with excitement and he pulled her towards him roughly and then he was kissing her like the world was ending and his salvation was somewhere in the back of her throat. Arya was frozen in shock at first but then returned each stroke of his tongue with one of her own, exploring his mouth and lips. Roose pulled her off the bench and pushed her back against the rail. The rail came up just past her waist and as he continued kissing her, he bent her back over the edge of the rail.

Arya pulled back and glanced behind her shoulder and felt fear shoot through her at the devastating drop from the loft to the floor of the nave. But Roose’s hand was on her cheek, turning her face back to his, and he continued exploring her mouth, nipping at her lips until she opened for him again. Then his hands were caressing her neck and shoulders and sliding down her front, briefly cupping her small breasts and then stroking her sides. They came to rest at the button of her pants. He pulled away from her mouth to gasp for air and Arya wrapped her arms around him, clutching onto his muscled back, trying to pull him closer again. He bent his head to taste the sensitive skin behind her ear and his hands busied at her waist, undoing the button of her pants and sliding the zipper down. One hand moved to cradle the back of her head as he lifted his head to kiss her lips once more, and his other hand slid down into her lace panties.

Arya knew she was wet. She had been wet with arousal ever since the masterclass, imagining Roose's voice whispering dirty things in her ears. She moaned as his fingers slipped into her wetness, exploring her slick folds. His mouth moved down her neck again and he used one hand to push her blouse up and bend her back even further over the rail. She would have protested but she could barely think straight, especially when he dipped two fingers inside her and slowly slid them in and out. His other hand pushed at her bra, pushing it up so her breasts were bared. He captured one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking and biting until Arya was whimpering and pleading her incoherent thoughts out loud. She bucked her hips against his hand and with his fingers still plunging in and out, he used the heel of his hand to grind against her swollen clit. Arya cried out, her voice echoing through the cathedral. Roose curled his fingers inside of her, stroking in some amazing spot that was absolutely devastating, causing zaps of pleasure to shoot down her legs to the tips of her toes. Her legs trembled as the pressure built, and only the rail kept her from collapsing as he drove her higher and higher. For whatever reason, Arya turned her head to look over the rail again. The pure thrill of being suspended so high above the nave floor gave her the last little bit of pleasure to push her over the edge and she came, insides clenching tight around Roose's fingers, her screams multiplied by the echos of sound swirling back to her. 

Roose pulled her back from the edge of the rail and her knees collapsed and she slid down to the tiled floor of the loft, panting. Roose sat with her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her forehead as she tried to breathe normally again. Once she was able to speak, she looked up at Roose. "I don't think the Widor Toccata will ever be quite the same after this," she said, eyes wide.

Roose's lips twirked. "For me either," he said quietly. 

Arya looked down at the large bulge in Roose's pants. "Um, can I help with that?" she asked shyly. Roose stood, pulling Arya up with him. 

"No," he said. "Arya, you should know, I'm married."

Arya wasn't sure why that meant what he did to her was okay but what she wanted to do to him wasn't, but she didn't say anything. She straightened out her clothing, gathered her music and shoes and followed Roose down the stairs. Once they were outside, he hailed a cab and pushed Arya in but didn't follow. Arya gave the cab driver her hotel name and stared out the window.

Back in her hotel room, Arya undressed and pulled out her phone. Sansa had replied to her text several hours ago. 

_Don't do anything I wouldn't do._

Arya laughed, completely confident that she hadn't. Everyone knew Sansa had slept with Tywin Lannister to get the lead role in _Madama Butterfly_ her final year at the Royal College.

The next evening, Arya, Sansa and Syrio took their seats in the pews at Notre Dame for Roose's concert. Sansa had suggested they sit near the aisle. "Arya has never made it past intermission for any organ concert she's ever gone to. She gets bored or annoyed and leaves," Sansa explained to Syrio. 

When the music started, Arya closed her eyes. This was one concert she wouldn't be sneaking out of due to boredom. She felt every single note Roose played. Some a gentle caress on her skin, and others more insistent, causing a throbbing in her core. At intermission, Arya was quiet, listening to Sansa happily chatter away to Syrio about the new roles she was learning for next season. Finally, the concert resumed. Before the music started, Cersei Lannister, the president of the Royal College ascended the stairs at the dais and took the microphone.

"I'm pleased to announce the winners of this year's Royal College Organ Competition," she said. Arya had actually forgotten all about the competition in the wake of other events. She sat up straighter in the pew.

"The second place winner is... Arya Stark."

Arya stood and pushed past Sansa into the aisle and went to retrieve her cheque and shake Cersei Lannister's hand. Cersei's hand was cold and limp, and her green eyes were calculating as she congratulated Arya. Once Arya was back in the pew beside Sansa, she heard Cersei announce the first place winner: Tommen Baratheon. 

 _Of course. Perfect little Tommen,_ Arya thought. Jaqen was right. These competitions were stupid. But Arya found she didn't care as much as she thought she would have. She just wanted to hear the rest of the concert. Once the applause for Tommen died down, Roose entered the organ loft again and started the second half of the program.

Arya closed her eyes again, feeling the music tug at her heartstrings, the sensations bubbling over and making her alternate between exhilarating joy and debilitating sadness. After Roose's last piece, the audience leapt to their feet. Arya stood as well, pulling lazy Sansa to her feet. Syrio had been one of the first people standing. They clapped until their hands ached. Roose stood up in the loft, patiently waiting for the clapping to stop. Finally, the audience was silent, straining to hear what the great master organist might have to say.

"My encore this evening will be the famous Widor Toccata. I'd like to dedicate this to a upcoming young organist who is going to do great things. She certainly had an impact on me, and I am not a man that is easily impacted." Roose turned back to the bench.

Sansa spun around to stare at Arya. "Arya, you _didn't!"_ she exclaimed, horrified. Arya smiled. Sansa's eyes widened. "You slept with Roose Bolton?"

Arya shrugged. "Not quite," she said, and turned away from Sansa as the opening arpeggio figures started.

After the final notes faded away, several seconds after Roose released the keys, Arya sat unmoving in the pew, eyes closed. Everyone else in the cathedral was on their feet, clapping and cheering. The applause went on for several minutes until Roose finally left the loft. Once the crowd was silent, Arya heard her phone buzz.

_I hope you understand I had to reward Tommen's clean, well-researched performance. But know that your performance slipped under my skin and made my blood sing. You will always have a place available in my Paris studio. Perhaps I will see you in fall? Think on it. -- R_

Arya grinned, locked her phone, and slipped it back in her pocket.


End file.
